


Lions and Men

by soufflegirl91



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, I Don't Even Know, Introspection, M/M, TSOA made me write this, but you should read it anyway, yet another take on that National Gallery scene, you don't need to have read TSOA for this to make sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 13:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15316932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soufflegirl91/pseuds/soufflegirl91
Summary: For as long as he can remember, James Bond has dreamt of fighting. Of endless battles, real and half-remembered. And of a word, on the tip of his tongue but never remembered. A word that causes grief like nothing he's ever known.The weary lion has grown tired of being placed in front of an enemy and never seeming able to lose. Five minutes of waiting in the National Gallery, and the cycle will continue again. He just has to get through this meeting first.





	Lions and Men

**Author's Note:**

> I've been lurking in the Bond fandom for almost a year now, giving out kudos and comments when I remember (I'm getting better, I swear). I've never really had a great idea for a fic of my own, but then I read The Song of Achilles and I couldn't ignore the parallels. I just love a reincarnation AU, don't you?
> 
> You don't need to have read TSOA for this to make sense. Lines in italics are taken from the book. 
> 
> Not beta-ed, so all mistakes are my own. Let me know if you spot any typos so that I can correct them :P

_The man moves slowly, like a lion grown wounded and sick, but his gold hair is unmistakeable._

James Bond sighs quietly, glancing at his watch. Five more minutes. Five more minutes, then a few more of polite chit chat. It would be, what, two minutes? Three at the outside. Eight minutes, and he would be on his way. Gun in hand, off to kill whoever they put in his way. The endless cycle continues.

This time, James had thought it was over. Really, truly over and done. Sleep, now. Rest. Done. But even in sleep, there is no real rest. In sleep, the dreams come. In sleep, the fighting never stops.

He’s not sure when they started, the dreams of never-ending war. The Navy, perhaps? Before? After? Certainly not as a child. When he was a boy, he had normal dreams of epic adventures, magical creatures, and faraway lands. After his parents died, he dreamt of running. Always, always running. The fastest, the strongest, but always effortless. At some point, without knowing, the dreams of running through woodland, up hills and along sandy shores became dreams of running towards faceless enemies.

Eventually, they became dreams of slaying endless opponents, each more unbelievable than the last. An African king, a warrior woman on horseback, a young boy. It wasn’t always a single enemy. Most of the time, it was just anonymous men on the field of battle. James didn’t know who the men were, only that they were Them, and They were the enemy.

After joining SBS, and then MI6, the dream-enemies were joined by real enemies. All his kills come back to haunt him.

The worst dream, the one that came only after the most brutal kills, or the closest scrapes, was the man with the golden armour.

As with all of the strange dreams that had plagued him for years, James didn’t know who the man was. He didn’t know what this man, with his ill-fitting armour, had done to him. All he knew, was that the sight of him made his soul scream out with rage. On those nights, James woke with a word on the tip of his tongue and tears streaking his cheeks. Whatever the word was, it was gone the moment he woke. Whatever the word was, the feeling it left behind was grief the like of which he hadn’t felt even when his parents died. Even after Vesper, the grief of his waking hours was nothing compared to the grief those dreams bought. How can one person grieve so deeply and never know what they are grieving for? He sometimes wonders whether knowing would make it better or worse.

Before Istanbul, he at least had the comfort that the worst dream did not come often. Once or twice a year at most. Since falling from that train, the worst dream came most nights. Two, three, four times a week. Since watching the explosion rock MI6 from that small bar TV, it had been every night. Days upon days of hate-rage-grief, and no rest in between. What he’d give for a night of faceless armies.

Now, as he sits here in a building full of tourists and art lovers, James just feels weary. He stares at the painting in front of him. His eyes are drawn not to the warship and its little tow-boat, but to the sun. The rays of light on the water remind him of the sunlight glinting off gold armour. Everything reminds him, these days.

“It always makes me feel a little melancholy.”

Only the years of training prevent James from starting visibly. _You’re getting slow, old lion,_ he thinks to himself. He’d been so focused on the sun in the painting that five minutes and more had passed without notice. He’d barely even registered the young man sitting down next to him. His head had turned to take him in as he sat, but not the usual threat assessment. Almost like James had been expecting him.

“Grand old war ship, being ignominiously haunted away to scrap...”

There’s something about the voice. It makes him think of all those nights waking in tears, years of grief for someone he’s never known. And a word, just on the tip of his tongue.

“The inevitability of time, don't you think? What do you see?”

What is the word? For the first time, he feels like he almost has it. Whoever this man is, he’s certainly not whoever it is he’s here to meet. Better move away from the distraction and keep a lookout.

“A bloody big ship. Excuse me.” James reluctantly drags his eyes away from the painting and goes to stand. Still, the word is taunting him. It’s right there, closer than it’s ever been.

“007. I'm your new Quartermaster.”

It’s there, the word. He can taste it. He can feel it with every fibre of his being. James opens his mouth to make a flippant remark. This man, whoever he is, can’t possibly be the Quartermaster. But that isn’t what comes out.

“Patroclus,” he says, “Patroclus. Patroclus.”

Patroclus smiles.

“Achilles.”

_Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood, like a hundred golden urns pouring out the sun._


End file.
